<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>the lone wolfe by wastelandfrenzy</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23686285">the lone wolfe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastelandfrenzy/pseuds/wastelandfrenzy'>wastelandfrenzy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Nancy Drew (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Idiots in Love, Romance, drug references</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:53:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,216</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23686285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastelandfrenzy/pseuds/wastelandfrenzy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I work in the field for two reasons: one, I don't need any help. And two, because no one would miss me if I fell off the grid."</p><p>Zoe Wolfe is used to incompetence. It's why she prefers to work alone. Despite this, she can't seem to avoid running into a certain detective duo throughout her extensive undercover missions. </p><p>Follows the events of The Phantom of Venice, Treasure on the Tracks, and The Silent Spy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zoe Wolfe/Joe Hardy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. part i</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so here's my third ND fic. it's still a WIP but i have a decent chunk written so far. </p><p>i know this is a very unusual pairing, the tumblr post that led to the writing of this fic is here (be sure to read her tags also): https://thebrothershardy.tumblr.com/post/165130655571/ship-aesthetics-joezoe</p><p>minor dialogue from VEN used, and there are obviously spoilers for all three games mentioned in the summary.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>part i.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>venice, italy</em>
</p><p>She likes the dress she'd picked out for herself. Deep crimson, made out of an airy fabric that feels light against her skin. It was one of her favorite trivial perks about her job, the clothes. It was frequently necessary for her to transform herself into a different person—often, a person fit to rub elbows with the wealthy. Secret auctions, high-stakes gambling, opera parlors, private clubs, and parties. Fortunately for Zoe, on this particular job the Institute would be footing the bill and there were few things sweeter than shopping on somebody else's dime. </p><p>Her heels clack on the stone as she approaches the club in Campo Santa Margherita. A flurry of pigeons clear her path. The sign reads <em>Casa dei Giochi</em> and she knows she's in the right place. Knocking on the door with white-gloved knuckles, she waits for someone to come out. Instead she hears a voice over a speaker and realizes they are watching her through the camera secured to the door. </p><p>"Back so soon?" the voice says.</p><p>She doesn't understand. "I'm here to see Enrico."</p><p>"No, Enrico is out. Surely you don't have the package already?"</p><p>Why is this person behaving as if she'd been there before? "No," she says, fighting to hide her confusion.</p><p>"Has something happened? A problem?" he inquires.</p><p>Something is wrong and now she's hesitated too long and when he comes back on the intercom, impatient, she can hear muffled voices whispering behind him. "This is highly unprofessional, first to come here one week early and then to return without—"</p><p>"There’s no problem," she snaps, nervous. She needs to roll with this punch and makes up something on the spot. "Only—I may have forgotten something when I was here last. A book. I mean—a notebook." </p><p>"I can assure you there is no <em>book</em> left behind from your appointment."</p><p>She struggles for a response.</p><p>"You may be a good card player, Samantha, but you are American completely through. Good day."</p><p>Retreating from the building, she wonders just what in the hell is going on. She is so distracted, in fact, that she almost doesn’t notice the steady sound of footsteps behind her as she turns the corner.</p><p>Her mind races to put the pieces together.  </p><p>After she walks past the market and the string of palazzi along the grand canal, it becomes clear that a man is following her. One of Enrico’s men?</p><p>Unfortunately for whomever it is, Zoe has purposely walked straight into a courtyard stuffed with an array of bellowing sticky-fingered tourists. It’s pathetic how easily she loses him behind a cart selling masks for carnevale. She purchases a silk black scarf and ties it over her head to conceal her white-blonde hair, removing her sunglasses and peeling off the gloves. Having altered her most defining features she feels secure to observe her follower. </p><p>Mid-thirties. Bulge around his middle. Painfully ordinary face. It’s the shoes and haircut that give him away. He’s a cop. Surreptitiously, he scans the courtyard, looking for Zoe. She dares to move closer to him in the crowd. </p><p>He pretends to scratch his head and speaks in rapid low Italian next to his watch. "Lost sight of target." A pause. "She knows. I heard them." </p><p>A break in the crowd prevents her from coming any closer and she makes a hasty escape back to her hotel room.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>Zoe wrenches off the scarf upon entering her room and rakes her fingers across her scalp, desperate for relief. The box of hair color still sits next to the sink, ripped into and empty. All of that stupid bleaching makes her head <em>itch</em>. </p><p>The crooked bed frame creaks when she parks herself onto the edge of it to grab her cell out of the open suitcase. She needs to find out what’s going on. Clearly she’s been impersonated, and by another American. The voice on the speaker had spoken English to her. <em>You may be a good card player, Samantha, but you are American completely through</em>. Enrico Tazza fenced stolen goods, and was famously known for his tendency to precede any business dealings with a game of cards. The problem is, <em>she’d</em> never played cards with him yet.  </p><p>And how had this American girl known what disguise to wear? The only people that know were her, Enrico, and Vuillard from the Institute, the recruiter who’d recommended her for the job. Unless this girl had somehow intercepted their correspondence. She thinks of the letters that the Institute sends out—the letterhead reading "Doppeler Institute for the Independent Industrial Arts." <em>We recommend our star pupil, Samantha Quick...  </em></p><p>And the cop. <em>Lost sight of target. She knows. I heard them.</em> Knows that she’s being impersonated? She has a feeling they’re connected somehow. The Italian police have been sniffing around Enrico Tazza for ages, eager for any shred of evidence they could find that he was dealing on the wrong side of the law.  </p><p>Zoe absolutely does not want her superiors to know her identity's been compromised, but she needs access to their resources. She instead pulls up the Institute’s tech department and dials. </p><p>"<em>Buona sera</em>," Talia says when she answers. "Hopped aboard any fine Venetian sausage yet?" Talia made Zoe look like a saint.</p><p>"I need you to look up some stuff for me, and I need it to be strictly under the table."</p><p>Talia sighs loudly and crackles her gum. "Again? If I have to cover for another one of your fuck-ups—"</p><p>"It’s not <em>my</em> fuck-up, okay? But it is an emergency, and if Vuillard catches a whiff of it this whole thing will go up in flames."</p><p>"Fine. What is it?"</p><p>"How difficult would it be to break into the GdiF’s system?"</p><p>"The Italian police? Uhh, depends on what you want to see." She hears rapid keyboard clicks.</p><p>"Payroll department."</p><p>"Oh? That’s unusual. But do-able." Her gum snaps again.</p><p>"I’m looking for anybody brand new to their payroll. Preferably an American name."</p><p>More typing. "Nothing like that."</p><p>"Really? Can you check their register and see recent money transfers? Like to a private contractor or something? Or any large transfer to a company with a bogus name?"</p><p>She is quiet for a few moments. "I’m coming up dry. All of this looks inconsequential."</p><p>"Shit." Zoe gnaws a fingernail. </p><p>"Red alert, gotta go. Text me later."</p><p>She tosses her phone onto the bed and flops backward into the pillows. The whole situation has her on edge and she doesn’t leave her hotel room to get any dinner when the sun begins to creep down the sky later on. Instead she sits on the sofa and peels an orange, nervously tapping her foot and halfheartedly staring between the television screen and her assignment notes. She texts Talia, <em>thought of something else. check for records of any large payments going into an american bank.</em></p><p>When her phone buzzes hours later, she jerks awake in the dark. The television lights up the room in flickers. It’s Talia: <em>no on the u.s. bank. </em></p><p>Zoe lets out a huff of frustration. Just how undercover is this imposter? Her phone buzzes again. <em>but listen to this, followed a paper trail to banca dell’oro, and the gdif arranged for a bank card to be issued to an american name just two days ago. weird thing is there’s no actual bank account or records attached to the card in oro’s system.</em></p><p>She texts back, <em>name???</em></p><p><em>nancy drew,</em> Talia says. Bingo.</p><p>
  <em>you know what to do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>comin at u in 5</em>
</p><p>Zoe sits up and reaches for her laptop, clicking refresh on her email until Talia sends the background check on this identity thief.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>She wakes the next morning at the hint of dawn and creeps out of her room into the cold. Having been busy throughout the night scouring all the details she could find about the Drew girl, Zoe didn’t get a lot of sleep and she ducks into a café for an espresso as soon as they begin to open. She’s dressed to blend in with tourists. Walking shoes, NYU sweatshirt, low-slung jeans. </p><p>The bank card issued to Drew was sent to the Ca’Nascosta palazzo, and Zoe is sure to camp out bright and early to wait for her to come out. Really, it’s ridiculous that she’s been reduced to tailing some random girl. What in the fresh hell does the GdiF want with a foreign teenager? She thought it must have been a mistake until she started to see her name pop up in many small-town newspaper articles. Perpetrators jailed, artifacts restored. She appears to be an amateur detective. Maybe she <em>is</em> working for them. Still, Zoe needs absolute proof that the impersonator and the undercover American are the same person before she takes any action.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>When Zoe finally closes her hotel room door behind her that evening, she lets out the laughter she’s been suppressing since that afternoon. </p><p>Drew had scuttled all over Venice, unaware that Zoe was following her. She knew codes and passwords in locations all over the city. She broke into offices and extracted strange things out of the ATM in Piazza San Marco. When Zoe “passed by” while Nancy was using it she glimpsed the screen. Not Banca dell’Oro, but <em>Polizia di Finanza</em>. She gets her proof. Later on Drew leaves her palazzo dressed in Zoe’s fucking disguise, blonde wig and all (making her wish she had gotten a wig for herself too, rather than frying her roots. Damn that rigid Doppeler schooling). Drew’s red dress is way uglier. It looks like she got it at a costume shop. </p><p>In the end she decides to let Drew keep up her charade. It’s too funny, Enrico Tazza entrusting some big heist to an undercover. So she knows a thing or two. Fine, if she wants to put herself in the middle of a dangerous crime ring to help the Italian police with some elaborate takedown (and for free! Since no record existed of them having paid her) that's her prerogative. </p><p>The first thing she does is dial the palazzo and wait for Drew to answer.</p><p>"Hello?"</p><p>"Don’t ever do that again," Zoe orders.</p><p>"Do what again? Who is this?"</p><p>"There’s only one of me and it’s going to stay that way."</p><p>"Samantha?" Drew asks incredulously.</p><p>"Do what you have to do for Tazza, but after that, the charade ends. Got that?" Honestly, isn’t it common etiquette not to steal somebody’s alias? Today’s kids were hopeless. </p><p>The next thing to do is get out of the city. It's bad enough that law enforcement has already been alerted to her presence. This is not a time to linger. She can deal with the Institute later. </p><p>In her hotel she balances her cell on one ear, collecting her loose belongings in the room and throwing them in a pile onto the open suitcase. </p><p>"<em>Bellissima</em> Miss Quick!" Talia answers.</p><p>"Samantha Quick is dead," says Zoe, scrunching up her now-useless red dress and chucking it in next to the toiletries, "and I’m getting the hell outta here." </p><p>"Scandalous."</p><p>"Italian cops have an undercover who’s using my alias to get close to Tazza."</p><p>"And you’re <em>letting</em> her?"</p><p>Sleeves and towels drape over the sides of her suitcase and she tucks them in hastily before snapping the lid shut. "Police were waiting for me outside Tazza’s. They don’t want me to blow her cover."</p><p>"Blow <em>her</em> cover?" Talia says, outraged.</p><p>"They’ll be pushing for arrests and I, for one, am not going to be included amongst them. Buy me a train ticket, will you?"</p><p>"Oh my God, I am not your personal assistant. Buy your own ticket, you lazy hag.”</p><p>"How can I profess to be Quick if I have to stop for mundane things like buying train tickets?"</p><p>"You can't profess. Quick is dead, you said so yourself."</p><p>"I gotta check out of my hotel. Ciao."</p><p>"Ciao? What, are we like—"</p><p>Zoe hangs up on whatever insult that was about to be and stuffs her phone charger into the side pocket of her suitcase and hits the lights on her way out, the setting sun casting a brilliant tangerine square on the opposite wall.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>She’s sitting on the train in a seat next to the window when her phone buzzes. It’s a notification from her bank. A confirmation of a large incoming payment. Drew had actually pulled off the heist. And Zoe is the one getting paid for it! If only that poor schmuck Tazza knew what was heading his way. This couldn’t have worked out any better in her favor and she stifles her laughter.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>It all happens so fast. The Sadal Melik sapphire recovered. Another crime ring dissolved. Five people in prison. </p><p>Justin Beaumont, an art thief she’d met in the Bahamas, contacts her shortly after she flies into the States. He was on the run. He’d been using the name Colin and working on mosaic restorations at—wait for it—the Ca’Nascosta palazzo. After his employer fired him and he found out he’d been under investigation in the Phantom thefts, he’d fled. </p><p>He says he’s heard Zoe's name muttered round his card games, along with <em>heist</em> and <em>polizia</em>. They meet in Washington, D.C. He’s too paranoid to speak on the phone. </p><p>"It was horrible," he complains in a thin voice, slumped into a chair in his hotel, nursing a glass of seltzer water. Occasionally he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I tell you, most of the people I work for are utterly senseless and unfeeling, no sense of responsibility to preserve the Venetian culture! And stingy. Not willing to put a single euro past what <em>they</em> feel is the appropriate worth for proper care of history and art. If you could have seen the ca’ I was working in, just seen the beautiful gold smalti tiles I found inlaid in the entryway, you would have understood the sheer crime it was to use anything less than the most quality materials in caring for it. And yet when the owner found out I hadn’t followed her instructions to skimp on the costs, she chucked me straight out of there."</p><p>"So you were employed at the ca’Nascosta," she interrupts, not sure how long this could go on. She isn't pleased about meeting in his hotel room, the guy creeps her and she was always catching a whiff of something sour just underneath his surface. Looking at him now, she understands more of why he didn’t want to leave. He’s been stewing in his own paranoia for days and he looks sickly, like a plant gone into shock, ripped up by its roots. White-faced with trembling fingers, his collarbones stick out sharply from beneath the neckline of his sweater. The whole room has the manic, tense air of a shut-in. "Does that mean you saw Nancy Drew while you were there?"</p><p>Bringing up Drew is a mistake. He <em>had</em> seen her, as it turns out. Had the pleasure of meeting her, in fact. No, the <em>honor</em> of making her acquaintance. </p><p>"What a bright young girl she was," he says wistfully to the ceiling as if Drew is dead and buried under a hill of wildflowers. "Simply radiant."</p><p>Being buried under a hill seems better than listening to this, that’s for sure. </p><p>"I wanted nothing more than to impress her, and I made an utter fool of myself instead. I left a gift for her in her room—some sausages from a nice shop on the Guidecca. Of course that backfired horribly. She was violently ill."</p><p>Now Zoe lets out a stream of laughter and he gets that wounded look on his face again. "You actually bought food from there? That old lady who runs it is half-addled with dementia. Everybody knows that."</p><p>"What do you mean, everybody?" he says, indignant. "How are you so familiar with the local confidence?"</p><p>She shrugs, still tickled at the thought of him inadvertently poisoning Drew. "Part of the job, man."</p><p>"Anyway, there were no hard feelings. She was much too mature for that. She even gave me a parting gift." He reaches into his front shirt pocket to retrieve a small tile and strokes it with his thumb as if it were a fond pet.</p><p>Her laughter vanishes. "Drew gave you that?"</p><p>Justin looks up in surprise at her sudden harsh tone. "Yes. This tessera is the finest gift I've ever received."</p><p>"You absolute idiot. Didn't you get the memo that she was working undercover? That an entire crime ring was busted?"</p><p>"Well, y-yes. That's part of the reason that I was forced to call you. Intelligent little thing that she is, she managed to uncover my real name, and I fear that the alias of Colin Baxter is no longer safe."</p><p>"You're damn right it's not. She was working with the police, airhead. And you were a suspect. With a bad history and a fake name. Don't you think they would have taken measures to ensure that you couldn't slip away before the investigation was closed?"</p><p>"No matter. I <em>did</em> slip away. Quite without incident."</p><p>She practically growls in frustration. "She was tracking you! And they still could be."</p><p>His eyes grow wide with horror. "You mean—"</p><p>"That wasn't just a fond parting memento, and if you were thinking with anything other than your dick you would have seen that."</p><p>He winces. "<em>Must</em> you be so crass?"</p><p>"Hand it over." </p><p>She snatches the tile and positions it underneath the leg of an armchair. Right before she slams the leg down onto it she hears a noise of protest from Justin that is cut off by a cracking noise as it splits into three pieces. She sorts carefully through it and extracts a tiny metal square. "There. Told you."</p><p>Zoe flushes it down the toilet and when she re-enters the room Justin has his nose pressed against the window as if expecting a fleet of police helicopters and SUVs to come bearing down on them.</p><p>"I wouldn't stick around much longer if I were you."</p><p>He sighs and gingerly collects the remnants of the tessera. She figures he's probably going to frame them or something equally inane. "I'm in need of papers. I can no longer continue to be Justin or Colin."</p><p>"You know my fee."</p><p>"Yes...exorbitant. I know you don't make the papers yourself, and I get the feeling you upcharge me nearly twice as much as your contact charges <em>you</em>."</p><p>She smiles. It's great to be a middleman. "Well, you're not quite as stupid as I thought." </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>may i say that writing these characters is SO FUN.</p><p>i'm going hard with the fan theories in this one hahaha (the mysterious shadow in justin's hotel room at the end of VEN, coucou mentioning samantha and justin's names in RAN)</p><p>i would love to read your thoughts if you have time to drop a comment &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. part ii</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>part ii.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>paris, france</em>
</p><p>Zoe is annoyed before she even speaks to them. These are the "agents" she’s been given orders to help uncover the Romanov fortune? They climb out of their cab and the dark-haired one speaks to the driver in broken French, paying him through the open window. They were only <em>boys</em>. She wonders if the one on the left is even old enough to order a beer back in the States. What experience could they possibly have in this line of work? </p><p>From across the street, she watches them. All she remembers from their bios is that they are brothers. They’re dressed semi-formally for the museum gala, collared shirts and dark jackets. The one with blond hair makes goofy finger guns at his brother as they disappear through the ornate double doors. A little sign fastened outside the museum reads <em>Royal Express Society: Private Event</em>. The society was hosting a treasure hunt—a string of train rides from Paris to St. Petersburg, giving the passengers an opportunity to observe a series of original paintings and unusual heirloom trinkets in the hopes that one of them would connect enough dots to discover the whereabouts of the hidden fortune. </p><p>She needs to take another look at her briefing. Honestly, she’d paid more attention to the details that read <em>hidden treasure, Romanov children, haunted train, blackmail</em>. Not the finer points of two investigators dispatched into the field by the U.S. government. Needless to say, they aren’t anything near what she expected.</p><p>The air feels damp and smells of rain. Zoe checks her watch. If all goes according to plan the brothers would be on the train to Vienna by tonight. There were only six invited guests on the treasure hunt. Her orders are simple: aid the Hardy brothers in their search. Among the guests were also a baron, an historian, and an art scholar, so between their influence and intelligence, she assumes she’ll have her work cut out for her. </p><p>Of course she has no idea why her superiors had an invested interest in the rightful recovery of the lost fortune, but she isn’t about to inquire. Agents of her rank and caliber don’t ask questions. The nosy ones never make it far. </p><p>Despite this, she had been far from a perfect student. Somewhere deep in the bottomless pit of files secreted away at the Doppeler Institute was a thick file that read: <em>wolfe, zoe; identification no. 2510. rank: graduate. status: active. pupil excels in both field/combat and incognito studies—however, possesses an unfortunately strong attachment to vulgar sarcasm and humor and is often a disruptive class influence.</em> All throughout her file were more of the same comments from all her instructors, complaints about inappropriate conduct and Zoe’s personal favorite: 'unnecessary and ill-advised jubilance.' She may have been a star pupil from a technical standpoint, but she certainly was not very well-liked. <br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>It’s painfully easy to sneak into the museum. The Royal Express Society is holding its own celebration feast to kick off the launch of the train. Between them and the six passengers, Zoe can safely bet on one thing: catering. Their uniforms are nondescript; white collared shirts and black pants and skirts. Easy to duplicate. </p><p>Dressed in the catering outfit, she goes around to the back of the building where some warehouse workers are taking their cigarette breaks in the alley and she sees the catering van parked next to the back entrance of the museum. It has begun to rain by now and the staff is so frantic to get their equipment inside out of the wet that nobody seems to notice when she jumps into the fray and begins to help carry stacks of trays and boxed glasses, rolling carts loaded with serving utensils and folded linens. A harried-looking woman with a clipboard runs amongst them, barking orders and frothing at the mouth in her vehemence that the baron must be accommodated as the first priority.</p><p>The museum is beautiful. Delicate chandeliers, white paneled walls, gold cornicing near the ceilings. She doesn't have long to admire much of the architecture as the staff hurries to prepare their elaborate dinner. </p><p>Later on Zoe balances a silver tray of appetizers and follows another server down the hall to the main gallery. The ticket-holders chat amiably and study the paintings on the wall. A woman in tweed with tortoiseshell glasses and a clipped English accent approaches. “About time,” she says, reaching for the foie gras on Zoe’s tray. "I wondered how the society expected us to find their treasure with all of us having dropped dead from lack of sustenance." </p><p>She spots Frank and Joe in the corner. Okay, fine, they aren’t as baby-faced as she’d originally thought. But still. This time she’s come prepared, having revisited their files to make sure she knew everything she could about them. Detectives from New York. Twenty-one and twenty. Spent a number of years working for ATAC. Strictly affiliated with the "correct" side of the law, their records were squeaky clean. Crime-stopping boy scouts.</p><p>Taking some time to watch everybody, she steps back into the hallway when her tray is empty. Her phone had vibrated quietly at some point. When she checks it, it’s from the Institute. Some anonymous helper plugged into the mainframe down in the basement, feeding their agents with tidbits of information throughout their assignments. They are who Zoe is <em>supposed</em> to call when she needed something, instead of just asking Talia to do it for her. <em>293107110: objective updated; track unnamed assailant. considered threat to all passengers. keep as much distance as possible from Hardys, under no circumstances are you to board train or disclose identity</em>. Along with the text came a picture of the 'unnamed assailant.' A gruff man in his mid-forties, pockmarked and unshaven, wide-set mouth, black hair, with a red fez perched atop his head. She dutifully deletes both text and picture. </p><p>"What did I just spend thirty minutes going over?" the clipboard woman says, having snuck up on Zoe in the hallway. She points at the tray tucked beneath her arm. "Don’t dawdle with the empties or you’ll throw off the whole dinner schedule. I swear, the day these agencies send me people at least half-competent will be a cold day in hell."</p><p>She needs to warn the brothers about this new target, and she makes her way back in with a new tray. Upon spotting her Joe Hardy immediately heads over, plucking food from the offered tray. He has a sweep of blonde hair across his forehead. Pale blue eyes. Loose collar from tugging on it in discomfort, clearly not used to wearing formal clothes. </p><p>"Oh, man," he says while he chews. "Have you tried these yet? They’re <em>great</em>."</p><p>"No. So what’s the deal with all these glass cases?"</p><p>"Mmfrnov," he says, swallowing. "Romanov’s, I mean. These are the heirlooms that supposedly have hidden messages pertaining to the whereabouts of the lost fortune. It was hidden by Tsar Nikolas II for his kids. At the time, there was a Bolshevik uprising near the end of World War I and he wanted to make sure their future was secure and all that. Seriously, though. Eat one of these square thingies."</p><p>"Pass."</p><p>His brother sidles up next to them. Everything about Frank looks intense standing beside Joe. Dark hair, dark eyes. Where Joe looks mischievous, slightly unkempt (having already wrinkled his shirt), Frank looks serious, measuring his interactions, every move calculated. Though Frank is just a bit taller, they both have athletic builds and Zoe’s guess is on high school football.  </p><p>"You’ve gotta have one of these," Joe insists to Frank, using two fingers to pluck another sample. "What are they?" he asks her.</p><p>She shrugs, annoyed. "Looks like cheese to me."</p><p>"Isn’t that something you’re supposed to know?" Frank asks. </p><p>"Guess I’m not very good at my job."</p><p>"Don’t say that," says Joe, helping himself to more cheese. "Look at all this food in my hand. Now where would I be without you? Hungry, and without the company of a beautiful girl."</p><p>"You can’t contain yourself for five seconds? Already hitting on the caterers?" Frank asks. </p><p>"I’m not a caterer," she says. </p><p>"I’ll bite," Joe says and she flicks her gaze to his. "Then who are you?"</p><p>"That’s not important. What is important is that you’re both aware of the danger coming."</p><p>She’s caught their attention, and they’re both looking less casual. </p><p>"What danger?"</p><p>"I can’t say for sure, but you need to stay alert on this assignment. I’m here to help you both make it out of this alive."</p><p>"Who are you working for?" Frank asks.</p><p>"All I can say is I’m after a large bearded man with a fez."</p><p>"Oh, we’ve seen him," Joe says, and Frank kicks his shoe in a way that is probably meant to be subtle, but Zoe notices. He ignores Frank and continues, "He was outside a couple hours ago when we arrived. Arguing with the baron."</p><p>"Arguing with him about what?" Her eagerness shows and Frank studies her.</p><p>"We don’t know," Joe answers. "The baron tried to play it off like the dude was only trying to mug him, but that’s not what it looked like."</p><p>"That’s enough, Joe," Frank interjects. "I say we play our hand closer to our chests until Miss Anonymous here tells us a thing or two. Like for starters, why you’re so interested in this fez guy."</p><p>"I don’t know much about him, but you need to expect things to get ugly. I wouldn’t be here otherwise."</p><p>"Nice deflecting," Frank says. He’s relentless.</p><p>"I’ve got a bearded man to catch."</p><p>When she turns away Joe’s fingers catch her softly by the arm. "Wait." </p><p>She swivels back to face him, thinking it’s important but he reaches for three more pieces of cheese and salutes her.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>It’s almost time for the train to depart. The paintings and artifacts have been safely transported aboard by the Society's team of specialists. The catering crew packs everything up into the back of the van, straggling on sore feet. She ditched them a while ago to search for the assailant. Zoe sees Frank speaking in a hushed voice to the woman with the clipboard and she’s frowning and leafing through her papers. Nice try, Frank, but you won’t find me in there, she thinks to herself. </p><p>She’s scoured the building and hasn’t seen any sign of a man with a fez, bearded or otherwise. Hushed voices float out from behind a conference room door and Zoe keeps to the shadows in the dimly-lit hall to listen.</p><p>"Any luck finding that dude?"</p><p>She jumps and turns to glare at Joe Hardy. "Aren’t you supposed to be on the train?" </p><p>"I’ve got some time."</p><p>"Why don’t you spend it somewhere else? I’m trying to listen." </p><p>"Well, then <em>shh</em>." He puts a finger to his lips. Clean fingernails. He must be his mother’s pride and joy, she thinks to herself with no small amount of sarcasm.</p><p>Unfortunately the conversation holds nothing of importance, just the conductor getting his instructions not to make any unscheduled stops or converse with the passengers. The voices grow closer and the doorknob rattles. Reacting immediately, she springs back from the door and hisses, "Hide! Tapestry!" but he was already thinking the same thing and they collide in an awkward rush against the heavy fabric. They scramble behind the blue and gold tapestry, his arm around her waist until he seems to realize what he’s done and yanks it away like he’s been scalded. </p><p>The two men from inside the room drift past them by an inch, barely missing them and Zoe holds her breath. She can feel Joe’s fingers hovering above the small of her back. She rolls her eyes. He has massively misunderstood the situation if he thinks acting protective is necessary or welcome. </p><p>"That was close," he says cheerfully once they pass by. She sweeps aside the tapestry with a little more force than she means to. </p><p>"Stick to studying paintings, leave the espionage to me."</p><p>To her surprise, he smiles in a way that could never be misconstrued as having good intentions behind it. "You don’t know much about us if you think we’re not capable of espionage. This isn’t our first time."</p><p>"Yeah, same here, skippy. Just remember who out of the two of us has the most insight to this case."</p><p>"Ooh, now you’re mad."</p><p>"I’m not."</p><p>"You didn’t like that at all. There’s practically steam rising off you. Now I know a second."</p><p>"A second what?"</p><p>"A second thing you don’t like: the implication that you’ve made an inaccurate judgment."</p><p>"What’s the first?"</p><p>"Cheese."</p><p>Her mouth twitches. Was this guy for real? "Don’t waste your time trying to compile a list of trivia about me. I won’t be around long enough for it to matter."</p><p>"I don’t know," he draws it out slowly, theatrically. "We’re making a lot of stops. It’s going to take over a week to get to St. Petersburg and there’s a lot that could happen in that span of time."</p><p>"Let’s put a screeching halt to whatever half-baked implausible scenario was about to present itself there. I won’t even be on the train. I have to get going." </p><p>"I wouldn’t say implausible."</p><p>"Delusion truly is a cruel mistress."</p><p>"I’ve already learned something else useful, though.” He flicks the hair out of his eyes. "Something that you <em>do</em> like. And that’s making fun of me."</p><p>"In what universe is that useful for you?"</p><p>He waves his hand. <em>Psh</em>. "I can for sure use that to my advantage. I thought you had to go."</p><p>"I do. No time to stand around chatting with boy scouts."</p><p>"See? That right there is the animosity I intend to cultivate."</p><p>"Good luck with that."</p><p>"You’re still here."</p><p>"Your skills of observation have no bounds." She is already moving down the hall, having sensed that his need to get the last word in runs as deep as hers. <br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>Shit. This is going all wrong.</p><p>She finds the man with the fez at the last second. At the station, she watches from across the platform as he leaps aboard the Royal Express onto the observation car at the very end, breaking through the lock with astounding efficiency. A black duffel bag is slung over his shoulder that Zoe has a bad feeling about. All she knows about him is that he's a danger to her case, and the fact that he's now on the train is bad. Very bad. </p><p>Before she realizes what she's doing, something inside snaps and she makes an impulse move, following a gut instinct as she sprints across the platform to the train, gripping the railing and careening herself inside just as the train picks up speed. </p><p>Honestly, how difficult were her instructions? <em>Keep distance from Hardys</em>. Well, that was a fail. At least she remained anonymous. <em>Under no circumstances are you to board the train</em>. Hard fail on that. </p><p>Now, she crouches inside and the man is nowhere to be seen. She’s not sure where he could have gotten off to so quickly. Sliding the connecting door open cautiously, she slips into the next car. It’s the dining car—deserted, thankfully. Though the appliances have been updated, many of the fixtures on the plumbing and cabinets have an ornate antiquated look to them, much like the rest of the train does. She would probably know a little more about what she's looking at if she’d paid more attention in history class. </p><p>Down at the end she hears voices coming from the next car and realizes she can’t go any farther. She calls the Hardys and they answer on the first ring. Frank sounds suspicious.</p><p>"Hello?"</p><p>"Hi, Frank."</p><p>He recognizes her voice immediately. "Hello, again, Girl With No Name. We wondered if we would be hearing from you again." </p><p>She hears Joe saying something in the background.</p><p>"Bad news," she tells them. "I found the man with the fez."</p><p>"I thought that’d be good news."</p><p>"Not when we’re all trapped on a string of moving cars with him."</p><p>"He’s here on the train? <em>And</em> you?"</p><p>"And I can’t be seen. My mobility here is obviously limited and I need you to look out for this guy."</p><p>"Where are you?" Joe asks, having muscled his way onto the phone.</p><p>"In the back, in the dining car."</p><p>"That’s no good, the next car is the one with all the paintings and artifacts and there’s a guard making sure none of us get too close."</p><p>"Give me a heads up when the coast is clear."<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>At least an hour passes before the door slides open and Joe is whispering, "Hey." Frank comes in after him and Zoe crawls out of her hiding spot. </p><p>"And how are we enjoying our trip?"</p><p>"Admittedly, the view's not so great from down here," Zoe says, stretching out her legs.</p><p>"How appalling of you to say! This is the finest preserved mahogany I've ever laid eyes on," Joe says, rapping his knuckle against the cabinet.</p><p>"What can I say, I run more towards cherry or oak."</p><p>"I think the fez guy has got the same idea you do," Frank interrupts. "Lying low waiting for an opportunity. We've been through a couple of the other guests' rooms already. Alexey's, and that historian's. How did you say he got in again?"</p><p>"Observation car."</p><p>Frank moves past her to check out said car. Joe hovers next to her while she checks her phone for the millionth time.</p><p>"Too bad we don't know what this guy is up to," he fishes. "It would help to anticipate his next move."</p><p>"You're telling me," she says, typing.</p><p>"How did you know he was relevant to our case?"</p><p>"I'm just following orders."</p><p>"Orders from who?"</p><p>She ignores him and reads a text from Talia that says,<em> antony again. call me!!!!</em> Knife emoji.</p><p>"That's fair," Joe says with a shrug. "I didn't think you'd answer me, but I thought I'd give it a shot."</p><p>There is a crashing sound and Frank cries out in alarm. They rush into the observation car and find Frank sprawled on the ground holding the side of his head. He points to the door.  </p><p>"Fez guy was here. Jumped the train."</p><p>"<em>What</em>?" she demands, marching to the large windows and peering against the glare of the sun. He's gone. Smooth plains of grass hug the tracks. Better for landing than rocks, but it's still a jump she would have only done in an emergency. "What was he doing?"</p><p>"I'm fine, by the way, thanks," says Frank, climbing to his feet.</p><p>"Something's wrong. Why so desperate to get off the train all of a sudden?" She starts to look around but it's Joe who spots it first—a gray-colored hunk of putty, blinking timer and wires curling around it. </p><p>"You have got to be kidding me." Zoe approaches the seat it's mounted on to take a closer look. </p><p>"Is that a bomb?"</p><p>"Yes. PE-4. I'm starting to catch on to that guy's whole 'leap off the train' thing."</p><p>"At least I'll die doing what I love—investigating," Joe says.</p><p>She's leaning over, following the line of each wire and Frank and Joe hover over each of her shoulders in a way that sets her teeth on edge. </p><p>"Back off," she snaps. "I'm cutting the signal to his remote detonator—shit." The screen lights up, counting down from two minutes. It's designed to activate in the event that the signal is disrupted. It's bought them extra time at least. </p><p>"Can you disable it?" Frank asks. </p><p>"Yes." She feels adrenaline, her heart battering against her ribs, and crisp focus as she dares to reach into the tangle of wires with the delicacy of a hummingbird. She stops, rethinking. "You two get the rest of the passengers as far to the front of the train as possible. Say whatever you have to."</p><p>Their protests rise up, Frank's eyes zeroed in on the timer and she cuts them off swiftly. "The blast won't reach beyond the last two cars. You'll derail but everyone else can <em>live</em> if you do what I tell you."</p><p>"But you said you could disable it," Joe says.</p><p>"Do it!"</p><p>The door slides open and shut and she's lost twelve precious seconds and she's praying that she can conjure into her brain the diagram of the plastic explosive wire paths from her textbook.</p><p>When she looks up she finds that Joe has stayed behind, lines of worry etched into his face. Their eyes meet and it's a strange second and a half before she turns back to the wires. She doesn't have time to assess why he's done it. Paralyzed with fear? Probably not. </p><p>Her mind races, tracing the wires with precision. Everything melts away.</p><p>The timer freezes at sixteen seconds after she's finished, and that's far closer than she's comfortable with.  She's off her game. Now that it's over her hands tremble no matter how hard she tries to hold them still, an unwanted side effect of the adrenaline. She wishes she had pockets but she's still wearing the stupid black skirt from the catering. Or better yet she wishes her hands wouldn't shake. It makes her look scared when she isn't.</p><p>"Wow. That was..." Joe trails off, sounding impressed.</p><p>"Lucky. Lucky we had to study so many schematics."</p><p>"Studied, hm? You were in school?"</p><p>"You better go find your brother. I'm outta here."</p><p>"What?" he asks in disbelief, finally snapping out of whatever fog had descended upon him. "You can't <em>leave</em>."</p><p>"You're kidding, right? That guy is getting farther away as we speak. I'm going after him."</p><p>"Is defusing bombs just something that you do on a regular basis? 'Cause you're acting like nothing even happened."</p><p>"How should I be reacting, frenzied? Maybe fluttery with a hint of swoon?"</p><p>"God, no. Just—I thought you'd want to take a second to breathe. Ruminate. Appreciate the not-being-dead thing."</p><p>Zoe shakes her head. "I can't chill out in the open, I'm not exactly a ticket-holder on this trip."</p><p>"You can hide in our room in the sleeper car and give us a better briefing of the case—"</p><p>"Waste of time. Worry about solving the puzzles in the artifacts."</p><p>The door slides open; it's Frank. "You did it! Nobody knows a thing. Hey, where are you going?"</p><p>"Our new friend here has decided she's hurling herself off the side of the moving train," Joe offers. </p><p>"You're not staying on 'til Vienna?"</p><p>"No, but I'll meet you there."</p><p>"That is if she hasn't broken her legs or her back from the plummeting fall," Joe says.</p><p>She responds with, "Tuck and roll, my friend, tuck and roll."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. part ii, continued</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i can't resist throwing in a meme reference, kudos to you if you recognize it (:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em>five years earlier</em>
  <br/>
  <em>doppeler institute, testing room #11</em>
</p><p><br/>Zoe dodges a fist coming at her face and retaliates with a neat barrage of calculated strikes: right hook, left hook, left, right, foot sweep. </p><p>The only way to get the opening she needs is to get closer, so she leans into the assailant's next hit. She lets herself get clipped in the ribs as anticipated and she takes the opportunity to slam an elbow into the side of his head, probably harder than necessary. </p><p>Her assailant goes down. She's on the move again, crouched and creeping down the dark hallway, sweeping her eyes for any motion detectors. Glancing at her watch, she curses inwardly. There is still a labyrinth of corridors to snake through, no doubt littered with at least half a dozen more guards waiting for her. If she had more time, she could work her way through them slowly. But she isn't being graded on completion alone. Her speed factors into it as well. It isn't enough to get a high score with a slow runtime. </p><p>If only she could have an overhead view of the layout. She looks up. The temporary walls erected for the simulation are sleek and paneled, smooth to the touch. They come about eight feet high, and Zoe can barely make out the open ductwork in the cavernous ceiling above. Near the top of the ceiling is an observation window. It's two-way, and darkened, but she knows that there are professors and about thirty students with their faces pressed to the glass, watching her. </p><p>She needs to find a way to climb these walls, but as she slides her hands across she can find no footholds or grip. She turns around and spots the doorway she just came through and the little bulge of a security camera protruding from the wall above it. Bingo.</p><p>Pressing a foot against the inside of the doorway, she makes a slight leap and pushes off, reaching upwards. She jams her other foot on the other side of the door, using all of her core and leg strength to keep her suspended. There's a cutout in the wall for the camera, and it's perfect for a foothold if she can manage the upper body strength to get that high. She's tired from all the sparring, but if this worked she wouldn't have to fight much more before reaching the exit. </p><p>Her fingers finally catch the top of the wall. She presses a smug kiss onto the camera lens, smearing it with dark lipstick. Her arms shake as she carefully lifts herself upward until her foot can catch the crevice in the smooth wall. When she finally heaves herself up and balances her butt carefully on the temporary wall, she realizes that she can see the whole rest of the maze ahead of her, including where the guards are posted. </p><p>Looks like the path of least resistance to the exit is three lefts, two rights, and another left. She'd cut most of the lights about twenty minutes ago, so she had that going for her as well. </p><p>The rest of her mission is cake and by the time she punches the big red button at the end to mark her time, she soars with delight to see that she's gotten the fastest time out of everyone so far. </p><p>A loud buzzer cuts through the ominous silence of the testing arena, massive fluorescents clicking on overhead, everything suddenly much more reminiscent of a large warehouse with a rat's maze constructed in the center. </p><p>She stands in front of the exit door and waits a full minute before it unlocks with another buzz. Her mouth feels parched as she ascends the stairs. She's been at it for two hours.</p><p>Zoe enters into a barrage of noise. All thirty students chatter excitedly in the observation room. One wall is lined with screens, and another is all glass. </p><p>Ewan Macleod hovers near the door looking smug. "I couldn't imagine takin' that hard of a dive." He shakes his head in mock sadness. </p><p>"Says the person in last place. The person who can't even tell the difference between a hook and a jab." </p><p>"Oh, I won't be in last place for long. No' after that little performance."</p><p>"You mean that competent display of skill that blew everyone's scores out of the water? Yeah, I'm thinking that your place is secure."</p><p>"I mean, I knew your superiority complex would be your downfall, but I <em>am</em> surprised you would disrespect our instructors right to their faces. And on your graduation exam, no less."</p><p>"Were you even watching the same test?"</p><p>"Yes, and you cheated!"</p><p>"I did not cheat. You're just mad you didn't think to climb the wall."</p><p>"You left the boundaries of the course when you climbed up there, that's cheating!"</p><p>"God, shut <em>up</em>, you slimy little mealworm," Talia interjects. "Keep your insecurities to yourself for once."</p><p>"Heard you failed your combat section," he sneers back. "I'll keep the seat next to last place warm for you, don't worry."</p><p>"Talia can out-hack you any day and you know it," Zoe says. </p><p>They immediately shut up when one of the instructors approaches her, looking grim. "I don't imagine this will result in very good scores for you, Wolfe," Comtois says. Her hair is icy-white blonde, frown lines etched around her mouth, and not a single loose thread in her suit. </p><p>"You must be joking," Zoe says with disbelief. </p><p>"No, I am not. Because I am a <em>professional</em>, and I know what it means to conduct myself as such."</p><p>"What about that was unprofessional? I completed the objective in record time. Okay, I'll give you the lipstick, that was a bit extra, but I did everything I was supposed to."</p><p>Comtois is already shaking her head, mouth pursed. "I don't know when this idea that you are above the rules manifested itself into your head, but I can assure you that you will go nowhere in this Institute with this attitude."</p><p>Zoe had heard some variant of this speech from Comtois for many years. She hadn't expected to hear it now. Macleod can barely contain his mirth at her public humiliation. </p><p>"Part of what we're testing you on is your ability to <em>follow directions</em>," she continues, "and work within your given parameters."</p><p>"I used everything made available to me. Are you telling me that thugs in a real-life situation would stay within their so-called parameters? That they wouldn't seize any opportunity they could find to stop me?"</p><p>"Save your backtalk and your insolence for someone else. How about the damage you did to Doppeler property when you ripped into that electrical panel?"</p><p>"I had to cut the lights, I was using my resources! You all said to treat this like a real mission. In a real mission I wouldn't want to be seen, and I sure as hell wouldn't care about property damage."</p><p>"Enough." Comtois slices the air with a decisive hand. "Consider yourself fortunate that I am not on the judging panel, because I guarantee you would not be graduating today." <br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/><em>present day</em><br/><em>czech republic</em>                                                                                    </p><p>Zoe has been tracking their fez-wearing friend for the past seven hours. She'd rented a car—or rather, Samantha Quick had rented a car (to her surprise, that Drew person had done absolutely nothing else with her alias. Which is great because she already has papers and identification under that name and it would have been a bitch and half to get new ones of the same quality.) Scouring the GPS for the closest bits of civilization to where he'd jumped, she asks around and discovers that he'd been seen at a town twenty minutes from the train tracks. </p><p>The fez guy is way too cocky and can't keep a low profile to save his life, carelessly dropping his crumpled receipts and chatting up bartenders and cashiers wherever he stopped. He is easy to track. He's so incompetent that Zoe, who has never been allowed to give anything less than one hundred percent, wonders how he didn't blow himself up trying to arm that bomb on the train.</p><p>She sits in the lobby of a hotel in Königstetten waiting for him to come down from his room. A German newspaper is spread across her lap and a briefcase occupies the space next to her. It's empty, but completes her businesswoman disguise well. </p><p>He's taking forever to come down and she's already been sitting for two hours. There's a grayish, sickly-looking bruise on her ass from her badly executed "tuck and roll." She blames Joe for all of his stupid goading comments. She'd tried to show off and had landed in an awkward way. </p><p>He finally comes down wearing a blue coat as big as a tarp, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, patting down his pockets for a lighter. His hair is slicked back and he's not wearing his fez but his features are unmistakable: bristly beard with the first hints of gray in it scratching against his collar, deep pockmarks in his cheeks. Her seat faces the big window in front and she watches as he crosses the street and heads right for the pub. Great, she thinks, now we'll be here two more hours. </p><p>It's excruciating to sit any longer so she folds up her newspaper to leave. She calls Talia as she walks. </p><p>"That bad, huh?" Talia says when she answers. "Bad enough that it takes you eight hours to respond to me?"</p><p>"Yes, so save the guilt trip. You have no idea what I've been dealing with. Are you at home? Let me guess. Lean Cuisine, chain-smoking in front of the computer, smudging your wet nails, and debating whether or not to hack into Antony's phone."</p><p>"You have not one ounce of compassion, you know that? It's a wonder how you get all those people out in the field to trust you."</p><p>"I'm an exceptional faker. So go on."</p><p>"We both know I already hacked into his phone."</p><p>"And?"</p><p>"And he's sleeping with some chick with fake tits named Yenefer."</p><p>"Get to the part where you dump him."</p><p>"I can't dump him if he won't even take my calls, he's ghosting me. Plus he owes me two hundred bucks. Why do I make such terrible life choices?"</p><p>"You're asking the wrong person."</p><p>"Well, don't keep me in suspense," she says glumly. "Tell me whatever bullshit city you're in."</p><p>"I'm tracking this guy. He's on his way to Vienna. And then Prague, assuming he continues following the train he failed to blow up."</p><p>"Ugh, it is torture listening to this."</p><p>"Trust me, there is no glamour to this trip. You would hate traveling so light. And having to sit for hours at a time, waiting."</p><p>"You can quit trying to make me feel better, it's not working."</p><p>"Tal, it's a bona fide babysitting job, okay? I'm supposed to be paving the way for these boy detectives."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Okay, not literal boys, but they're so green they're practically chlorophyll."</p><p>"French?"</p><p>"American, actually."</p><p>"Huh."</p><p>"They're participating in some sort of sponsored treasure hunt."</p><p>"Ah, is that like a Key Party for nerds and historians?"</p><p>Zoe spots the fez guy coming out of the pub, heading down the street in the direction of the train station. "What? No. I've gotta go. Swipe your way to some rebound sex if you absolutely have to, but don't sit there feeling sorry over Antony."<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>"Perfect timing," Frank says when she calls them again. "We're in Vienna now, getting some fresh air and checking out the next clue. Where can we meet you?"</p><p>"You can't. I'm in Prague."</p><p>"What? How?"</p><p>"Bullet train. I followed the fez man. Seems he wants to beat you guys here."</p><p>"We're not scheduled to be there until tomorrow!" says Joe.</p><p>"I know. And so does he. I know what you're thinking, 'how will you ever survive without me?' You're just going to have to try real hard not to get blown up 'til then. How's the fortune hunting going?"</p><p>Frank happily obliges her and fills her in about hidden messages in the paintings, a miniature model train set, and a peculiar set of Russian nesting dolls.</p><p>Joe, however, is deathly quiet and Zoe can practically feel his discontent sizzling over the line.</p><p>"So I have a question," he finally says in a cheerful tone. "Who the fuck <em>are</em> you?"</p><p>"Language," Frank corrects automatically.</p><p>"Sorry. With whom the fuck are we speaking? You come out of nowhere with information about our case but you won't tell us who sent you. You still haven't even told us your name."</p><p>She smiles. "You're right, and it's been fun for me. But I'll tell you—only because you phrased it so eloquently—that my name's Samantha." It sucks to have to give him a fake name. She gives it out all the time but she's not sure what makes this time different. "So I'll meet you guys in Prague?"</p><p>"Yeah right, I've heard that one before," says Joe. </p><p>"No, really. Your train gets in at ten, I'll meet you at the coffee place across the street. I'm here now, it's called...Golden Bow or something like that? Who knows, I'm rusty at the Czech. Oh, speaking of, he's on the move!"</p><p>"Who? Mr. Fez Head?"</p><p>"Yeah. He just left the coffee shop. This dude never stops eating. Ooh, this looks good. Very dark building, warehouse-like. He's probably meeting somebody."</p><p>"That sounds like it could be dangerous," says Frank.</p><p>"Stay on the line," Joe orders.</p><p>Zoe follows the man inside. Weak light slips in through cracks and broken patches of roof. There are lots of abandoned shipping containers and mildewy remains of cardboard boxes everywhere. A metal door in the distance bangs loud enough to echo in the large empty space.</p><p>"What's going on?" Franks asks.</p><p>"Someone else is here," she whispers. "They're talking."</p><p>"Whatever you do, stay back," Joe says.</p><p>"I'm getting in closer. I can almost hear them."</p><p>"Don't!"</p><p>She pushes mute so she can hear what the men are saying. Crouching behind some metal barrels she sees the man with the fez speaking rapidly to a spindly-limbed man with thinning hair and buggy, paranoid eyes. Her translation is rough but she thinks she hears them say <em>contact</em> and <em>delivery</em>.</p><p>Fez guy spits. "<em>Cocksucking bastard</em>." She understands that one, alright. </p><p>The thin guy simpers and wrinkles his nose and tries to scramble for his pride, reaching into his pocket and handing over a wad of clear plastic with white powder twisted into a tight knot at the top. Fez guy shoves a handful of notes at the guy's chest with a slap, which makes him stumble since he can't weigh over one-forty. </p><p><em>Really?</em> She was freezing her ass off in a cold abandoned building over an eight ball of coke? She notices her phone on the ground, the call still connected with the Hardys and she hits End with an irritated smush of her finger. Why can't this bearded moron do something useful for once so she can go home? This is truly the worst assignment she's ever been given.<br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>By the time the man finally makes his way back to the hotel for the night, Zoe is dead tired. Twenty-one hours she's been awake, and still she's gotten nothing from this guy. He's done nothing but entertain himself, meandering around the city in bars and lounges and cinemas. Wasting time. She stands by the assumption that he's waiting for the train.</p><p>Eyelids drooping and heavy, she swipes the keycard that opens her room. Its front window faces the street (as per requested at the front desk) so that she can see whenever her target leaves. </p><p>Streetlamps throw haunting shadows and stripes of dusty light into the darkened room. The maid had been in while she was gone. She'd forgotten to put the Don't Disturb sign on her door. Clean towels folded neatly, visible through the doorway of the bathroom, trash emptied, bed made tightly and with five more pillows than she would be able to sleep with.</p><p>She falls into bed, scrambling her heels against the covers and yanking the edges of the sheets free from underneath the mattress. She shoves the extra pillows off the bed with contempt and it's the last thing she remembers, the sleep deprivation of the last week finally catching up to her.</p><p>When she opens her eyes next it feels like she only nodded off for a couple of hours, but realizes her mistake when she sees sunlight slanting in through her curtains. The clock reads 12:17 and she bolts upright. This is <em>bad</em>, a rookie mistake, and she can hear Vuillard's harsh reprimands in her ear as she struggles to untangle the sheets from around her legs. Her clothes are wrinkled and ruined from having slept in them and she kicks them off, rummaging through her shopping bags for something else to wear, toothbrush sticking out of her mouth, uneasily eyeing the window every three seconds in the unlikely chance that she'll spot him. </p><p>It's Friday, and when she catapults herself through the door of the hotel lobby and out onto the street, there are droves of families hand-in-hand, tourists smacking gum and pointing openly while they look at maps on their phones, and office workers bustling by on their lunch breaks. </p><p>Luckily she has one or two backup plans. A woman outside the hotel sells newspapers and magazines from a cart, and Zoe had made it a point to get on her good side in an unobtrusive way over the past two days (making large purchases, pointing out a shoplifter, <em>I bought too many cannolis at the bakery across the street, could you take this one off my hands?</em>) </p><p>Zoe approaches her now wearing a mask of flustered concern. "Have you seen my uncle recently? Really big guy, dark hair, beard." She jabs her thumb at the hotel. "He's been staying here, and I was supposed to meet him and my aunt forty minutes ago."</p><p>The woman recognizes her and is eager to return all of her favors. "Oh! You just missed him. He went into that bakery maybe ten minutes ago."</p><p>Bless this woman. If she wasn't in a hurry she would buy another magazine from her. Zoe is tense as she crosses the street to the bakery, eyes sweeping through the people around her, determined to find him. </p><p>Her focus is entirely engulfed by her task at hand and she barely registers when somebody calls, "Samantha!"</p><p>Joe Hardy barrels through the crowd, eyes wide and brimming with an emotion that she can't place. She thinks he looks scared, but then changes her mind when he throws his arms around her and squeezes her against his chest in what she can only identify as relief. He smells like clean laundry. Warmth spreads from his body to hers in the embrace.</p><p>She could have had him on the ground in four seconds flat, and it's a testament to how off her game she is that she let him get so close in her personal space. She wrenches backward and the intensity still flares in his eyes.</p><p>"Are you f—" </p><p>"We've been looking for you everywhere!"</p><p>"We?"</p><p>"Well, Frank gave up an hour ago to check into the next clue at the bridge. But we thought you were dead! The phone cut out after you said you were moving in on those men, and when you didn't show up when our train got in...Why are you looking at me like that?"</p><p>She'd forgotten about her promise to meet them by the shop.</p><p>"My bad about the..." He gestures toward her, awkward.</p><p>"Don't let it happen again." She wishes that it came out more menacing than it sounded.</p><p>"What happened last night? Who was the fez guy talking to?"</p><p>"Oh, that. It was just a drug deal. Nothing relevant to the case."</p><p>"Yikes."</p><p>She doesn't have time for him to process this general depravity of the human race and keeps moving toward the bakery. Shit! Peering into the big front window, it's clear that the fez guy isn't in there anymore. </p><p>"Where are you going?"</p><p>"To track down my mark."</p><p>"You <em>lost</em> him?"</p><p>"I'd find him a lot faster if I didn't have you harassing me in every sense of the word," she snaps. </p><p>"Hey, look," he says, jogging to keep up with her, "I really am sorry about that. It was an accident, sometimes my emotions get the best of me."</p><p>She rolls her eyes at his candor. "Sometimes? You have the emotional self-control of a child emperor."</p><p>"I get it. You think I'm spoiled for not having a reason to close myself off."</p><p>"Being in this business is reason enough to exercise some discretion. I guess I just don't see how you get anything accomplished in this line of work if you can't play it cool."</p><p>He grins. "D'you think I waltz up and announce myself as an investigator to all of my suspects? I may be a more what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of person, but I can play it cool, Samantha."</p><p>He says this with an alluring confidence and she is tempted to believe him, but he trips on his shoelace and pitches forward and she decides that she won't hold her breath. </p><p>He bends down to tie his laces. "Wait up!" </p><p>She doesn't. </p><p>"Hey, are we headed back to the train?" he asks when he finally catches up. </p><p>"Yes. I have a good feeling I'll find him there. You should go find your brother."</p><p>He ignores this and a contemplative look crosses his face."Ya know, he and I have done some undercover work for a government agency called ATAC." </p><p>She knows this, but she doesn't acknowledge his change of subject.</p><p>"Our contact there once mentioned a school somewhere in Europe, a very exclusive international school. Teenagers go there so they can learn how to be spies." He taps his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "What's the name of that school again?"</p><p>"A valiant effort, Joe. But I really don't know what you're talking about."</p><p>"Really? Cause it seems like the perfect place for a young woman to learn about, say, explosives schematics."</p><p>"Sounds like it." Zoe looks at him out of the corner of her eye as she says this. He smiles but doesn't press any further. "Why did you stay?"</p><p>"Only one of us needed to check out the bridge."</p><p>"I meant on the train. When I told you to go up front."</p><p>"I knew you could deactivate the bomb."</p><p>"That's crap. You don't know anything about me, let alone my scope of capabilities."</p><p>He sticks his hands in his pockets as they walk. "Maybe not. But I just knew. I mean, I stayed, yeah?" There's no sound logic to back this up, but he is immovable. <br/><br/></p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <em>warsaw, poland</em>
</p><p>Zoe's objectives change completely by the time their train makes its way to their second to last stop. One of the priceless antique portraits that was part of the treasure hunt had gone missing, replaced with a forgery, and the Royal Express Society was threatening to call off the whole event unless it was recovered. No doubt one of the other passengers was behind it, in hopes of finding the clue in the painting themselves before the rest of them could. The fez guy—or Jabar Yolmak, as Zoe had finally identified him—was responsible for nabbing the painting, and once he had it stored at the safe house, he'd fled the country. </p><p>Her new orders had flown in as fast as lightning: <em>Yolmak no longer in play. Recover painting from Lubanski Plaza, call in anonymous tip, NO direct contact with police. Leave immediately, await reassignment on 4th.</em> </p><p>Talia told her that they were already tracking Yolmak's flight; he wouldn't make it very far out of the airport. <em>vuillard's kind of throwing a fit, though. apparently yolmak wasn't ever meant to lay a finger on that painting,</em> Talia texts her.</p><p><em>so they're pissed at me, nothing new,</em> she answers. <em>this whole assignment has been a nightmare from the beginning</em>. If she hadn't let him get such a head start in Prague, he wouldn't have gotten the chance to steal that painting, and she knows it. <br/><br/></p><hr/><p><br/>She calls the Hardys back again with a font of information for them. They're actually going to be able to pull this off. The train was scheduled to arrive in St. Petersburg, their final stop by tomorrow morning. </p><p>"How did that lead go?" Frank asks her. </p><p>"I found the painting."</p><p>"No way!"</p><p>"I already sent a picture of it. Do your thing and get the last piece to the puzzle. You won't have to worry about The Fez from here on out. And just to let you know, it was Alexey behind the forgery, but from what I could tell he's being blackmailed. So. Do what you need to with that."</p><p>"How'd you even find it?"</p><p>"It was stashed in a flat in Lubanski Plaza. I snaked the key from Alexey. Still don't know who's behind all of this, but that's on you guys now. This will be the last call you get from me."</p><p>"What?" Joe demands. "Why?"</p><p>"There's more to this than just the missing fortune; you're about to bust open an art theft ring. While commendable, it's too high profile for someone like me to be involved in. I need to remain the mysterious woman named Samantha who let the cops know where to find the stolen painting, so I've been reassigned. You guys came through surprisingly well, though. It was fun."</p><p>"No, you can't just say goodbye and disappear," he insists.</p><p>"Don't worry, Joe. I wasn't going to. Say goodbye, that is."</p><p>She terminates the call, dutifully wiping the phone's internal storage and tossing it into a nearby trash bin. Her next destination is the airport. <br/><br/></p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>